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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174582">Dirkjohn XXX Files</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/psych0tastic/pseuds/axietoh'>axietoh (psych0tastic)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...ish?, Crack, Crossdressing Kink, Foot Fetish, M/M, Omorashi, Sexual Roleplay, Spoilers:, Watersports, abuse of narrative powers for sexytimes, and the main one:, animal dildos, be prepared to flex your imagination, explores various kinks but only lightly</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:34:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,454</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25174582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/psych0tastic/pseuds/axietoh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A (s)exploration of various kinks with Dirk &amp; John.</p><p>They kinky, ok? 'Nuff said.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Egbert/Dirk Strider</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>42</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Ride with the Wind 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A friend described these fics to be set in a universe where: ult dirk happened but was immediately lovingly topped into oblivion by ult john. Take it as you will.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>You stare at the thing in the box. You feel as though you’re dissociating. Your mind is blank, your skin chilly, the tips of your fingertips are numb. It’s not often that you’re stunned to the point of genuine speechlessness. You’re Dirk Strider, the cool guy who has an iron grip on his self control, a grip so tight even the vast metanatural powers of trickster candy can’t do shit to you. You’re a stone cold samurai warrior trained in the art of can’t-touch-this-shit, your mad skillz honed to perfection. Absolutely nothing can faze you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing, it seems, aside from a missent horse dildo from amaz*n.com.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You close the box. You open it again. Nope, still there, in all its neon pink glory, flared head and sculpted v—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You close the box. You put your head in your hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You didn’t order this. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You didn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re very sure you would’ve remembered placing </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> kind of order. Unless… unless you did it during one of your blackout periods, where you go for so long without sleep and cobble together weird robots at the height of sleep deprivation? No, wait, not even then. Even sleep deprived, you’re not that stupid. Are you?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You check the shipping label of the package. To: </span>
  <em>
    <span>DIRK STRIDER</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it announces smugly, in all caps. Ok, so maybe you are. Ok, so maybe you did. Jesus.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take a breath. Steel yourself. Open the box again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well. Since you apparently paid good money for this, might as well examine the goods, right?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take it out of the box.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Which, of course, is when your god of a boyfriend decides is the best time to snap back into the narrative.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare at him, shipping box in one hand, horse dong in the another. He stares back. You feel yourself starting to sweat. You swallow, wondering if its too late for a flashstep to escape the mess. Knowing him, he’d probably take a blue pen to the narrative and rewrite it five times as humiliating in retaliation. You hold onto that thought when his gaze drops damningly to the pink monstrosity in your hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At least, until his face lights up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh hey, it’s here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You stare at him as he plucks the dildo out of your hand. You stare at him as he checks it over with more care than you can compute. You stare at him as he gives it a little spin in his hand, testing the weight. What.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” you say.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?” he says, eyes wide, beguiling. His lips are curling into a smile betraying his faux innocence. You could throttle him, you think. But hell, that would be about as effective as trying to catch the wind. You settle for the next best thing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You throw an arm out to the toy in his hand, gesturing wildly at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>What!!”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He loses hold of his facade of calmness then, bursting into loud hiccuping laughter. He has to wrap one hand around his own stomach for support, his feet leaving the ground as he shoots up into the air, buoyed by his delight. Despite yourself, there’s a part of you that’s melting at the sound of his laughter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tapers off into giggles, wiping a tear away with his free hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay,” he relents, still grinning. You cross your arms so you don’t appear too helplessly endeared. You have an image to maintain. Or, at least, one to salvage. “Sooo I might have ordered us a sex toy—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Under my name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, yeah. I’m wasn’t going to order a horse dildo under mine,” he rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I got the idea after talking to Rox—“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You almost inhale your tongue, image gone with the wind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You talked to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Roxy</span>
  </em>
  <span> about this??”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John huffs, long suffering, “Are you going to let me finish a sentence sometime this fic?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You glare at him. He glares back. You swipe off your shades to make sure he knows you’re actually legitimately miffed about it, and he softens at once, dropping the playful antagonism at your cue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dirk,” John says, voice gentle. He has a wry smile playing on his lips. “You do realize Roxy is currently dating a cherub right? A cherub that transforms into a giant snake during sexy times? I promise you she’s the last person to judge us for a funky animal dildo.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You pause, blinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Also, I’m pretty sure they have something going on with Jade too, in which case she </span>
  <em>
    <span>especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> does not have room to judge us for anything.” He raises his eyebrow, opening his argument up for debate from the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You open your mouth. Think for a bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yeah… you got nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You purse your lips together thoughtfully, the set of your shoulders easing. His smile widens into a grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sooo you gonna let me fulfill your weird horse furry fantasies or what? Look, I even got it in your funky heart colors! It’s pretty close I think,” he wiggles the toy playfully in front of you, as if its no big deal, as if its nothing weird or out of the blue. “We can pull out the fur blanket too, if you want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He holds out his free hand, waggling both his fingers and his eyebrows, cheekiness incarnate. Any dread you felt had long since fled, only to be replaced by a shivering sense of anticipation, the promise of a good time written in the open lines of his body and the curved moons of his eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You bite your lip. You take a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fuck it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You take his hand.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ride with the Wind 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He brings the both of you to the bedroom in a crackle of white and blue electricity.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The remnants of his power spark across your bare shoulders, down to your fingertips. He grins at you, bright with mischief, squeezing your hand briefly before letting it go. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Give me a sec, yeah?” He winks, and in the same breath, winks out of presence entirely. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Retcon powers, man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You feel jittery, full of nervous tension. Instead of just whiling time away with your thumbs up your ass waiting for John to come back, you decide to go to the closet to dig out the fur blanket he mentioned. It’s a faux fur throw, soft and sinful, a motley of varying hues of grey. You remember having an argument with him at the store about which color to get: you, being in favour of the one in pure black, so dark it looked like it swallowed the light. He took one look at it and turned his nose up at it, insisting on the grey instead. The two of you would have probably been locked in a stalemate until closing time, if he didn’t wrestle and pin you down against his throw of choice, snapping at least 10 pictures of you on his phone before shoving it in your face, insisting that the grey framed you better than concentrated darkness.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What the hell ever. (You gave in.)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He teleports back to you just as you’re done laying it out on the bed, wiping down the toy in his hands. He shrugs at your look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Just thought I’d give it a thorough wash first. Infections are unsexy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You scoff, mocking. “What, not interested in playing doctor and examining my ass thoroughly? I could be your patient, in desperate need of your magic healing touch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>To your alarm, he goes from a wrinkled nose of disgust to a wondering, considering look in record speed. You hurriedly try to put a pin on whatever he’s thinking, stepping smoothly into his space. You run one hand down the length of his arm and touch the toy he’s holding. You finally have the chance to stare at it without interruptions, beholding it in its full 10 inch, bright pink glory.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your mind goes blank.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” he says, bringing you back to reality. “You can say no, y’know? If you’re not ready. We can take a raincheck if you want.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Last call, Dirk: yay, or nay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He pauses, realization dawning on the both of you. His teeth peek out as the ends of his mouth curl into a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” you say. He only grins wider.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yay or </span>
  <em>
    <span>neeeeii—</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You shut him up with your mouth, feeling his giggles bubbling against your lips. Helplessly, you feel your own mouth curve, even as he runs one broad hand down your back, pulling you closer to his warmth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he pulls back, your eyes are still closed from savouring the taste of him, the feel of his tongue sliding against yours. When you open them, you catch him looking at you expectantly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...yes,” you murmur, heartbeat quickening. Behind thick spectacles, his eyes brighten.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Cool,” he says, deceptively cool. Something in you flutters at the sight of his tongue licking the line of his lips into a smirk. “Now strip and get on the bed.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Drowning Flowers 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He’s muffling laughter over something on his phone again.</p><p>Without fail, something in you melts at the sound. He’s got one foot propped up on the couch, body curved over the glowing screen. He looks soft in his rumpled hoodie, hair mused from his breezes, skin warm in the light of the sun filtering in through fluttering curtains. </p><p>You give in to your urge to cuddle up to him on the couch, pressing the length of your body and thigh to his. He looks up at you, eyes warm.</p><p>“Dirk! Look,” he uncurls from his position to push his phone into your line of sight. You flip your shades up into your hair to better take in the crudely drawn stick figures he so enthusiastically wants you to see. “This is so funny!”</p><p>You vaguely remember the meme in question from back when you were living in a post apocalyptic sea world. It had long died by the time, merely a relic in the internet archives that you had unearthed, digging through old posts of the past century out of boredom. It seems those who do not remember history truly are doomed to repeat it.</p><p>You stretch an arm over the back of the couch, giving him a considering hum.</p><p>“Laughing over a poor flower’s kink, John? Didn’t think you’d be that judgemental.”</p><p>“What?” He scoffs, “They’re talking about pee, there’s nothing kinky about that. Don’t be gross.”</p><p>Internally, you resist the urge to grin. Externally, you give your dear, sweet, innocent boyfriend the most serious look you can muster.</p><p>“Hey, don’t diss pissplay before trying it firsthand, bro. Watersports is a huge thing in bdsm scenes, you know?” He’s mouthing the word to himself, a crease in his brow that only deepens with every word out of your mouth. You shove the humour welling up in you in favour of expanding his horizons.</p><p>“No, not those kind of watersports. I mean sports. Involving water. In the bedroom. By which I mean pee.”</p><p>He looks at you, all deadpan disbelief. “Yeah right. You’re making all that up to make fun of me, aren’t you?”</p><p>You shrug, maximum casualness, performance 10/10. “Piss play, watersports, and in dear flowey’s case - golden showers. Look it up if you don’t believe me.”</p><p>“Oh please,” he says, put out. “There’s no way that’s a thing.”</p><p>10 minutes later, he’s frantically scrolling through the internet, eyes wide.</p><p>“Oh god,” he says. “There really <em> is </em> such a thing.”</p><p>The look on his face is the perfect blend of horror and morbid curiosity. You relish it. You allow yourself a small grin behind one hand, before tangling your legs with his. He’s too distracted to react to it, busy making shocked noises at whatever he’s reading on his phone. Mentally, you give yourself a high five for a gambit well done.</p><p>And then he lowers his phone, face blank.</p><p>You freeze.</p><p>“Dirk,” oh shit. “You know an awful lot about this kink, huh.”</p><p>You open your mouth. You’re not quite sure how best to respond. You get the feeling the situation is spiralling out of your control and into his court. He doesn’t give you time to reply anyway, turning to pin you with a sharp gaze.</p><p>“Is this a fetish of yours? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dismiss it. Did you want to try it out?” <em> What?? </em> “You know, there’s something in here they mentioned. It seems like something you’d totally be into.” <em> Uhhh?? </em></p><p>“Omorashi,” he says, like the final nail in your coffin. Where your position once felt warm and snug, you now feel trapped, his legs like warm weights pressed down on yours. You put yourself in this place. It is you.</p><p>His eyes have never left your face. In a delayed sense of panic, you realize you didn’t lower your shades back down. Something clamps your gut in a vice.</p><p>His lips are curving. His arm is curling around your waist, locking you in place.</p><p>“So Dirk,” he says, voice mild. You feel a telltale crackle of white-blue energy sparking across your skin. “How many cups of water did you say you drank again?”</p><p>You can feel him reach into a narrative predating the window of this fic, in search of that one small throwaway detail. You don’t even remember what you did (or wrote?) anymore. You don’t think you can remember much else aside from the warmth of his arm around you in present time, his gaze pinning you down like a physical presence.</p><p>“<span class="john"><strike>One</strike></span> ?” he asks, considering. “<span class="john"><strike>Two</strike></span>?<span class="john"><strike> Four</strike></span>? Maybe even... <strong><em><span class="john">eight</span></em></strong>?” Your breath hitches, your fingers digging into the back of the couch. Your back bows helplessly with the sudden feeling flooding your abdomen. You can hear your heartbeat loud in your ears; your thighs tensing hard against his. God, you can’t even cross your legs like this. </p><p>His eyes hold yours as he waits for your cue. You can feel his thumb rubbing at an exposed sliver of skin at your hip, light and airy. You tremble under his touch - it’s almost too much for the way your skin is drawn taunt, agonizing.</p><p>If you withdrew now, you know he’d let you go, no questions asked. Heck, he’d even wordlessly hit backspace to the past 875 words or so, making it so the whole situation never even happened. You could live your life far from this humiliation of writing yourself into a corner, perhaps aside from an occasional, niggling feeling of déjà vu in the loo.</p><p>But… do you really want to?</p><p>Heads or tails. Flip a coin. It goes off into the air in your mind’s eye, and you’re enraptured by the sight of it spinning through the air. You slap a hand over it before you catch sight of the result of the toss. Do you check it?</p><p>Stupid question. You know you won’t. It’s always been the heart over mind, for you.</p><p>You let a tendril of your own metapowers unfurl to join his.</p><p>You hammer that final nail home yourself.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Drowning Flowers 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next few minutes find you a wretched, sobbing mess, with John Egbert out to murder you in your bed with his cock.</p>
<p>He fucks you at an agonizing pace - slowly, smoothly, as though every drag of his dick against your walls is done through molten syrup, the thickest unadulterated honey. Each time he pushes into you, you sob, the heavy pressure within you mounting to overwhelming levels, threatening your already precarious grip over your control. Your numb legs twitch, desperate to close your thighs to help stave off the inevitable humiliation, but he’s right there between them, keen on splitting you right open.</p>
<p>He pushes into you again, huge and unrelenting.</p>
<p>You whine, a high pleading thing.</p>
<p>“I can’t,” you choke out, "I can’t I can’t <em>I can’t</em>—”</p>
<p>“Shhh,” the bastard murmurs, low and soothing. “Just a little bit more, you’re doing so well, love.”</p>
<p>You’re light headed. All the blood seems to have rushed to your head, and you can feel the heat radiating off your own cheeks against the coolness of your tears and the pillow under you. You feel raw, alit with nerves, a shivering hapless mess, a plaything in his hands.</p>
<p>Your body is caught in tug-of-war between two types of releases. Unfortunately, one is denied by the other, and the other… well…</p>
<p>“<span class="john">Not yet</span>,” he presses the lightest of kisses against your cheek, “<strong><span class="john">not yet</span></strong>.”</p>
<p>This ebb and flow of sensation threatens to drown you whole.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. A Lesson in Music</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Picture this:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You, Dirk Strider, in an anime school girl uniform - modest sailor top with an altered skirt cinched tight at the waist, falling perfectly around the middle of your toned thighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Him, John Egbert, your boyfriend - stunned stupid upon catching sight of you at the doorway, eyes huge and blue behind black rimmed glasses, phone abondoned on the floor after toppling over a slack grip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John’s a leg guy - you know this. It wasn’t something he had explicitly told you, but a little trivia of information you picked up over the time you got to know him. Boobs and butts drew attention, sure, but what really got his gaze to linger helplessly was the smooth, uninterrupted line of legs, be they bared from a pair of shorts or hugged by opaque leggings. When you started dating, you realized that wearing tight jeans left him distracted not because they showed off your ass, but because they showed off the curve of your calves. You’re thankful that wearing shades was your character trademark, as it allowed you to track the direction of his gaze with you leaving him none the wiser.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You’d shelved that little detail away, but today, out of the magnanimity of your heart, you have decided to indulge him. You’re smug to note that yours have currently captured his full attention. Specifically: your legs in sheer black nylon stockings.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You step into his space, just barely out of reach.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So John,” you drawl, tilting up your chin for your shades to catch the light </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> right. “See something you like?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he can respond in any way, you smoothly lift one foot to press against the warmth of his crotch. He jumps, startled, along with his eyebrows. His eyes dart from the appendage in his lap to your face, a little disbelieving, a little intrigued.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You smirk and exert more pressure at the balls of your feet. He hisses, one hand flying up to grip your ankle in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What,” you enunciate slowly, thoughtfully, “are your thoughts on getting railed by a guy in a skirt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You watch him mull it over seriously, thinking it through, a frankly adorable pout in place.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hot,” he declares, after a while. He’s not lying - you can feel him beginning to stir beneath your foot. You flex your toes against him as a reward. His grip around your ankle tightens reflexively. You note that he makes no move to move it away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>You grin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before you can open your mouth to direct the scene however, he beats you to it:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My turn,” he says. He loosens his grip to rub slow, firm circles into the vulnerable tendon of your foot</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What,” he counters, “are your thoughts on getting railed by </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>, while wearing a skirt?” You immediately open your mouth to scoff playfully, to tell him to up his game, until you catch sight of his dark eyes staring at you, sly, from under dark lashes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could call me </span>
  <em>
    <span>senpai</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he suggests lightly. “Or,” he runs one hot palm up your calf, slow and smooth,</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...</span>
  <em>
    <span>sensei</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something in your gut clenches. Your body flashes hot. Against your will, you can feel your cheeks suddenly flood with warmth. It’s his turn to smirk, knowing you’re caught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without warning, his hand darts up to grip the back of your knee. Within the next sentence by virtue of a sudden crackle of meta-energy, you find yourself pinned to the bed, him between your legs. You huff, heart already starting to beat faster in your chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well then,” you say, layering on a false sweetness to your voice to hide the breathlessness. You coyly use the tip of your toe to trace his jawline. “You gonna teach me a lesson, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sensei</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His laugh is lilting, airy. He apprehends the offending limb and tucks your knee over his shoulder. You obligingly curl your leg around the broad set of it, pulling him down, closer to you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure,” John says. His grin is less playful, more sharp intent of a promise. You feel something under your skirt twitch. “I’ll teach you a lesson in music.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He dances pianist fingers along the inseam of the thigh splayed out around him, humming. Beneath his touch, your muscles quiver.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll teach you how to </span>
  <em>
    <span>sing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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